


Ghosts that we knew

by Chatnoir89



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Secrets, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatnoir89/pseuds/Chatnoir89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sign of Three Episode Tag-ish</p><p>'No one noticed as a tall, dark haired gentleman left the jovialities in seek of the cold bitter night air, coat collar popped up to keep out the wind. But then again, no one had seemed to notice a second figure slip silently into the reception hall, blending in seamlessly amongst the dancing crowds of slightly inebriated guests.'</p><p>When a face from the past shows up at unannounced, doubts resurface, secrets are revealed and old rivalries reawakened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts that we knew

**Author's Note:**

> Random thought that occurred to me when seeing Irene's cameo in SoT :) Also my random speculations regarding some things that appeared in the episode! Apologies if I'm wrong, we'll find out soon! 
> 
> Title from Mumford and Sons. 
> 
> Language warning, if people are against that stuff, uh sorry! There's not a lot but some. 
> 
> Completely unbetad, unedited and posted at a ridiculous hour.

The night was turning out to be perfect – attempted murder excluded.

Soft light pulsing bright colours around the room as he and his newly wedded Mrs were jostled by dancing guests, hand in hand, watching their friends attempt to dance to music of a bygone era. 

No one noticed as a tall, dark haired gentleman left the jovialities in seek of the cold bitter night air, coat collar popped up to keep out the wind. But then again, no one had seemed to notice a second figure slip silently into the reception hall, blending in seamlessly amongst the dancing crowds of slightly inebriated guests.

With a hand around his wife’s waist, John leaned into her embrace, wondering to himself, if it were possible to feel two heartbeats at this earlier stage, even though he knew, medically, this was impossible.

The crowds of bustling guests wound down for a moment as the song ended. A burst of laughter and joyful banter rang throughout the room as they waited for the music to begin again with the debate for more drinks and whether or not they should sit the next one out.

As the next song began, John’s heart leapt to his throat in a way it had not done in months. His body stilled as memories arose in his mind’s eye, short flashes of all those years ago.

“John?” Mary pulled back from his arms, feeling the tension coursing through her husband’s body, reading his expression instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” John schooled his stance, kicking himself for not having better control over his emotions. “It’s fine, it’s just – I bloody hate this song.” He grumbled, giving his partner a quick kiss to prove he was alright.

“Not many I know are so vehemently against the Bee Gees,” his wife chuckled into the kiss, smiling as she listened to him mutter. “Sherlock thing?” she laughed affectionately, in the way she seemed to do whenever another idiosyncrasy of Sherlock’s made itself known.

“More like a Moriarty thing.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Mary paused; all jokes and smiles disappeared instantly. They rarely spoke of Moriarty. It was before their time together and for the most part of it, John refused to talk about the man other than the fact that he was an insane psychopath. The rest Mary had read from the blog and in the papers after Sherlock’s return.

“No, Mary it’s fine, it’s just a bloody song,” John reassured her, annoyed at himself, “but I’m telling you,” he began to scan the room for the only other person in the room who would have a clue how much he hated the song; a tall, lanky arse of a detective, who would have access to the stereo and who had a tendency of pissing off the doctor. “If Sherlock put this on the set list as some ruddy joke, I’ll bloody well – “

“May I cut in, Doctor Watson?”

Long thin fingers slipped between his and Mary’s, cutting between them, blocking them off as he was pushed back into the crowded dance floor. His eyes trailed up the tall figure, heart racing, utterly unable to comprehend.

His mind went completely blank. Frozen. Stuck solid as he tried to decipher what was happening before him.

Blood red lips split to reveal white teeth like a she-wolf before cornered prey. Fierce bright blue eyes lined with inky black seemed to crinkle at the ends as if thoroughly amused at his incapability to verbally construct a formidable sentence in her presence. The billowing of rich fabric draped off her lean body like a warrior goddess as she moved effortlessly through the happy dancing crowds with a stunned John as her partner.

 _God_ , how the hell was this possible? Mycroft had told him that she was dead, very dead – not _dead on a slab, knew what the coroner liked_ dead – but legitimately dead. True there was the story about Irene being in some sort of witness protection, but that was all made up to spare Sherlock the pain of losing her again – the brooding and moping, writing sad music at all hours of the night.  Honestly, John would have done anything to spare him that pain; apparently it had all been for naught. Suddenly a niggling thought crawled up from the tendrils of his mind, something that had seemed so blasé and casual all those years ago, but somehow still clung to the walls of his memory – _it would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool me_.

_Sherlock Holmes himself –_

“That _fucker_.” He breathed through clenched teeth, barely containing the anger that was boiling up inside as he tried to pull his hand out of Irene Adler’s grasp. He needed to have a little word with a certain detective about blatantly lying to his face!  However, he had not banked on Irene’s grip being made of iron. “ _Let go_.” He growled under his breath, giving his hand a second tug but found her hold clench tighter still. Unless he wanted to apply more serious force, he wasn’t going anywhere – and she knew it. Her other hand rested lightly on his left shoulder, thumb hovering just over the central point of his scar warningly – applying the right about of pressure and there would be a slight degree of pain, but mostly the pressure would result in resurfacing trauma. Although how she knew about his scar… he didn’t like to think about it – probably knew what someone with his file _liked_.

Stubbornly acquiescing, he sent her a glare of discontent, before looking around for his wife. She had been by his side just moments before and this room was not nearly big enough to lose her so quickly, although with the amount of wedding guests between them it made it difficult to search for her and Sherlock for that matter. 

“Eyes forward, Doctor, wouldn’t want a lady to feel unwanted.” A quick hand to his jaw wrenched his gaze back towards that of Ms Adler, a glare permanently fixed on his face as he looked up at her.

His jaw was set stubbornly, he may not be able to go very far, but he would not be giving her the satisfaction of assuaged compliance.

“Ah, Jim loved this song, always up for a good time, that one.” She began, chattering away casually as if they were age-old friends catching up over tea and biscuits. “Shame he was never satisfied with life in the shadows, _much_ more lucrative I find.”

Surreal seemed be the only way to describe it the situation he had found himself in. Here he was dancing at _his_ wedding – if one could call being pushed around unwillingly on a dance floor dancing – with a woman he would have sworn to Queen and Country that she was long since deceased, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen – the bastard – and Mary had been lost in the crowds. Though ever time he tried to glance around the room his head would be snapped back to the centre by Irene’s quick hand – bloody dominatrices.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” John snarled viciously, suddenly finding his voice, eyes tight in suspicion and hatred.

“Careful Doctor Watson, you don’t want to make a scene,” the Woman’s words whispered like wafting smoke, leaning in towards his ear as not to alert the unaware dancing guests around them.

“This is my fucking wedding, I can make a scene if I bloody well want to,” he growled back through his teeth, ripping his hand out of Irene’s grip vehemently.

 “Perhaps not here, darling,” Mary was suddenly by his side, hand on his shoulder, a calming force to ease this hurricane building within him.

“Yes, shall we find someplace more … _private_?” The Woman whispered in an almost purr as she took his hand once more and began to tug John towards the hall’s exit.

“Mary, find Sherlock.” He told her, struggling to contain the anger clawing its way from the pit of his stomach.

“What’s going on?” Mary’s eyes were darting forth between John and the mystery woman, wide with panic as she tried to make sense of the events before her.

“Just a little catch-up of old friends, nothing more.” The Woman gave Mary a wicked smile and proceeded to tug her husband away from her once more, but not for long as John reached out for Mary’s hand.

“Bring Sherlock up to our room, that _git_ has some explaining to do…” He muttered in her ear, she could tell he was furious and that he was fighting ever part of himself to keep that anger sated. “Don’t worry, it’s fine, no one’s getting murdered – yet.” He added with a soft kiss on her cheek, which seemed to reassure her somewhat. John could tell that his wife was distressed by his anger and mysterious actions, but he couldn’t risk blowing up in front of all their wedding guests. If Irene had shown up, there was a reason she was here and that reason most probably involved Sherlock Holmes. It was far better to resolve this mess in private and then return to the reception after it was settled. God knows those two had a love for the dramatics.

Reluctantly John let go of his wife’s hand and let her seep into the crowds to look for his supposed best friend, while he was forced to accompany a woman he thought dead until just a few moments earlier.

 

\---

 

Mary’s eyes desperately scanned the faces of the crowds around her. Heart racing as her mind went over hundred of questions: Who was that woman? Why was John so furious with her? Why did the woman decide their wedding was the best time to have a chat with her husband?

A small part of her immediately – slightly jealously – said _ex_ , though as soon as she thought this, it was dismissed. If this woman were a vengeful ex, John would not have asked for Sherlock so readily, he probably would’ve handled it himself, in a more discrete manner. Actually, John would have admitted it right there and then as he had done a year ago when they had run into that Jeanette woman in Waterstones.

No, not John’s ex.

 _Sherlock’s_ ex? Now that was something she was unsure whether she wanted to explore. Having one of John’s ex’s show up unexpectedly at their wedding would undoubtedly be awkward, but one of _Sherlock’s_?

The thought seemed to make her slightly protective of the raven-haired detective. If this woman was Sherlock’s ex, it must’ve been a fairly awful breakup to result in John’s reaction.

Did Sherlock even date? She didn’t think that was possible, though she hadn’t known him for very long – but they had spent rather a lot of time together these past few months… John’s blog seemed to suggest that Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in romantic entanglements, but perhaps they had agreed it a private affair and not for the eyes of the general public.

Jesus, if he _did_ date, she really hoped it wasn’t with that woman. From her brief encounter, the fiery demon of a woman gave the impression that she wasn’t good for the detective. She seemed callous and manipulative –

 _God_ , she really was his mother. Mary kicked herself, mentally, and continued searching.

“Molly!” Mary grabbed the young pathologist with such gusto the small woman gave a slight squeak in surprise, nearly dropping her flute of champagne.

“Oh Mary, hello,” Molly smiled after a moment’s recovery. “How are –?”

“Sorry, love, but I need Sherlock,” Mary urged, really not wanting to wade through pleasantries at that moment. “Look some woman came in and John left with her –”

“What’s wrong?” Greg leaned over, physically placing himself into the conversation, slightly slurring from the umpteenth glass in his hand – well at least someone was enjoying the wine.

“John took off with another woman,” Molly gasped, hands clasped over mouth though her eyes showed a hint of excitement by the discovery – clearly some one was looking for an excuse to escape her fiancé’s nattering about his other ‘theories’. 

“Our John?” Mrs Hudson cut in, appearing seemingly out of thin air, making Mary dizzy at the sudden gaggle they had formed in a matter of moments. “No, couldn’t be, are sure he didn’t run off with Sherlock? Always thought those boys would elope somewhere in the country. Truth be told, I thought that’s what they were up to with that business in Devonshire all those years ago.”

“Yes, okay, can we – “ Mary tried to put everyone back on track but was cut off by Lestrade’s hearty laugh.

“That was a _case_ , ‘Hounds of Baskerville’ I think John called it,” he sighed with a roll of his eyes, completely unaware of how agitated the small blonde woman next to him was getting. “And anyway, _I_ went on that case too.”

“I don’t judge dearie, we are living in a modern age.” Mrs Hudson shrugged vaguely, taking a large sip of her wine, leaving a rather awkward pause in the group as Lestrade stood doing a rather decent impression of a gapping fish.

By now, Mary was thoroughly pissed by the incessant ramblings and interruptions. The chattering, the thumping music and flashing lights, the nauseating questions in her head and gut – that could actually not have anything to do with the situation at hand but were certainly not helping. Was it so hard to get a bloody word in?! 

“ _No_ ,” Mary emphasised clearly, frustration rich in her voice “some _woman_ , just gate crashed _my_ _wedding_ and took off with my _husband_ –”

“Ah,” Greg clicked his finger as if he’d suddenly remembered important information, “it was probably just Adriana or Anthea or whatever she’s going by today,” Greg assured her with an honest nod, obviously over Mrs Hudson’s disclaimer. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his phone and begun fiddling with the touch screen.  “Mycroft’s assistant, always nicks John for a chat, I’ll just – ”

“WHERE’S SHERLOCK?!” Mary yelled, utterly frustrated at constantly being interrupted and by the overwhelming noise in the room, until she realised there was no noise. The music had stopped and all her wedding guests were standing in shocked silence at her outburst. Brilliant…

“I, ah, saw him nip out the door earlier,” Molly said timidly, meekly pointing to the door to the gardens.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Mary sighed in relief, gathering the skirts of her dress and dashing out the door, hoping that she it wouldn’t take long to find him.

 

\---

 

“What is this, some _fucking_ game you’re all playing?!” John bellowed the moment the door was closed, finger accusingly pointed at the woman before him as he paced to relieve the burning desire he had to lob an antique lamp in her direction.

Irene stood by the door, no emotion on her face though John rarely knew what she was thinking anyway. 

“Oh isn’t it _hilarious_ how faking our deaths can affect people’s silly little lives!” John growled, later he would hate how hysterical he was sounding, but the anger had taken over and at the moment he couldn’t care less.

“I never knew you cared,” Irene smiled, stepping away from the door, draping herself into a high leather wingback, adjusting her dress to allow her legs to cross. As if mocking him with her very presence, she then picked up the pile of wedding telegrams from the small oak side table and began flittering through them casually.

“He knows doesn’t he?” John shook his head, fighting the urge to kick himself for his stupidity, “he’s known this whole time.”

“Has anyone told you how _sexy_ you are when you’re angry,” she purred, lazily trailing her gaze up to match his. “I bet Sherlock has, probably riles you up just to watch you _pace_.”

John’s knuckles began to whiten as he clenched his fists, closing his eyes for a brief second to remember that assault was an incarcerable offence.  He hoped that Mary and Sherlock got here soon to sort out this mess, otherwise there might very well be a successful murder in the building that evening.

 

\---

 

“SHERLOCK!” She yelled into the cold night air, frost collecting to her breath like billowing smoke. Cursing her stupidity for not thinking about grabbing a jacket, she pulled her thin shawl tightly over her shaking shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep heat.

She had been wondering through the dark gardens for almost ten minutes now, calling out into the chilly night for the lanky git like a ridiculous banshee from a folk tale – lord she was even in a wedding dress, if anyone saw her they would probably think she was a ghost searching for her lover lost on the moor. Not exactly how she envisaged her wedding night.

“SHERLOCK!” She called again, “You bloody idiot!”

When she had chosen her wedding dress and shoes she had not foreseen – as one does not often foresee – that she would be doing such things in the outfit as running after murder victims and chasing down mental detectives who have decided to take a stroll in the middle of a wedding reception. Of course upon buying the shoes in question she had also been informed that she could choose which ever as – according to the shop assistant – she’d most likely just be sitting for most of the day. Oh, would she love to come across that bloody gum-chewing, ‘natural’ redheaded bimbo and shove those shoes in her -

“Mary, I know you may not be the brightest of people, but surely a nurse of your above average intelligence would realise the affects of extreme temperatures are not probably to best to place upon a maturing foetus.” Sherlock appeared out of the shadows like a phantom in the night.

“Were you sitting in that tree?” She gave him an odd look, as with nothing else around them it seemed to be the most likely.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he shrugged his long coat off and placed it over the shivering bride shoulders. “A much as you and John seem believe you stand in place as the parental figures in my life, I am not a child and I was not sitting in a tree, I walking to get a cab…” he trailed off into a mumble, losing the gusto of his speech as he noticed the look on Mary’s face.

“You were _leaving_?” was all she managed to say as she pulled the oversized coat tighter to warm her cold arms, all initial reasoning for finding the detective had suddenly seemed to disappear as her worry and guilt for the man before her crept in. She gave him a slap on his forearm in reprimand.

“Not my thing,” Sherlock sniffed, waving it off with a nonchalant shrug. Placing both hands on her shoulders he span her around in the direction of the reception hall glowing in the distance, giving her a gentle push. “But it is yours so, off you go.”

“It’s our wedding, Sherlock.” Mary ignored the detective’s insistent pushing and turned back to look up at him in the eye, a pleading expression on her face. “We’ve been planning this for _months_.”

“Yes, _your_ wedding, not mine” Sherlock corrected with a slight smile, “It is not necessary or advisable that I stay ‘til you regret the open bar.”

That comment caused a sad smile to form as she looked up at him. He still didn’t get that she knew when he was lying, silly bugger.

“Why are you out here anyway? Surely you and John – “

“Oh God, John!” It suddenly hit her like a wave against rock. Her smiled fell instantly as the confusing events from before rushed back at her. Hands, drowning in the fold of the large coat sleeves, rushed up to her open mouth. How could she have forgotten?

“ _What_?” All jokes were gone from Sherlock’s face as his eyes sharped, lips pursed. His mind was now thoroughly switched into detective mode. 

“It happened so quickly, there was this woman, John knew her, but he was angry. _Really_ angry. She said not to make a scene and then told him she needed to talk to him and started to take him away. I went to follow them, because surely I wasn’t going to let some random hussy –”

“ _Mary_ ,” He growled to get her back on track, his eyes were flickering, shifting through the information in his mind palace.

“Right, he told me to come and get you so I – “

“Always the _drama queen_ ,” Sherlock spat through gritted teeth, shaking his head as he began to walk briskly back towards to hall with Mary following closely behind, almost jogging to keep up with his long gait.

“John?” Mary cocked her head to the side, eye slightly squinted as she tried to work out what exactly Sherlock was muttering about.

“The Woman.” He reiterated, quickening his pacing though it was beginning to feel like walking to his execution. He really didn’t want to do this tonight.

“The woman?” Mary frowned, mind racing over the familiarity of the title, “hang on, not the Woman-woman? That Irene Adler woman?”

“Ye-p.” He kept his gaze forward as he saw the hall coming closer.

Mary was quite a fan of John’s blog and had gone through quite a few of the stories with him in their time together. It started as a way to help John recover from Sherlock’s death, though from the first few cases, Mary was indefinitely hooked. Irene Adler was incredibly familiar name; the dominatrix that played with Sherlock’s heart – so quite possible ex, if one is to believe her husband’s theories. However there was one fact that was not adding up in her mind, one single point that made this whole scenario impossible. 

“But she’s dead. John said that Irene Adler was – ”

“No-pe.”

Mary paused for a moment, halting abruptly in the middle of the pathway, looking up to where the detective had stopped as she did. “John’s going to kill you.”

“Seems that way.”

“You bastard.”

 

\---

 

John leaned with his back against the window frame, the furthest point away from the woman in the small living room attached by a connecting door to what was meant to be his and Mary’s wedding suite. Arms tightly crossed over whitening knuckles, he sat glaring fierily at a small scuff in the waxed wooden floors, trying to get his fevered breathing under control.

The Woman seemed all too at ease with the current situation, flipping the telegraphs with small smiles appearing on her face as if she was amused by his relationship with Mary and the people who wished them well. It felt utterly patronising to have her flit and chuckle over their partnership and love as if it were nothing more than an amusing gimmick. 

Suddenly she looked up from the cards, placing them back on the side table, a cruel smile on her lips.

“Doctor Watson,” she almost sang, walking over slowly to where he stood, half standing, half sitting against the windowsill. With the added height of her pointed black heels, she seemed to tower over John. Clearly loving the power play, she trailed her forefinger along his cheek, to which John stayed unmoving, unblinking, not out of fear or pleasure, rather to force her into a cold stalemate.

“You don’t intimidate me,” he told her, squaring his jaw, eyes sharp, intensely holding her stare, arms crossed, not backing down.

“I don’t, do I?” she smiled, watching him curiously as though he were some fascinating oddity she had just uncovered. “ _Good_ ,” she purred, stepping closer, so their bodies were inches away from touching.  “You are finally getting interesting, Doctor, I’d hate for you to ruin that by being _boring_.”

Ah, that word. That fucking word. _Boring_.  God, what was it with sociopaths and that bloody word? Well, yes Sherlock wasn’t a sociopath – high functioning or otherwise – his actions today very well proved that. But still. Irene, Mycroft, Moriarty – everything was _boring_ this and _boring_ that. Was he some magnet for people who were incapable of amusing themselves? Of course it always made him think of what his mother used to say when he claimed as such: ‘ _Only boring people can get bored, darling’._ On that matter – he made a mental note – he was never introducing his mother to Sherlock. In actuality, he’d come to that fact way before this moment.

“You’ve changed since our last encounter,” she cooed, reaching out with her red tipped claws to trail them along his cheek once more. “I _love_ it.”

“What do you want?” John kept his stance, not moving an inch. She was like a shark in the water, one sniff of blood and she would go in for the kill.

“Maybe I just want you…”

“At my wedding? You’re a little late,” he scoffed with an odd smile, he knew he game and there was no way he was going to be playing it tonight. Sherlock could bloody well deal with his own problems. 

“Oh I would love to break you,” she continued her intimidation routine, “build you back up as my own.”

Her eyes seemed to glow with firelight as she spoke, dangerously relishing the complete destruction of another human being. 

“My own little tin soldier,” she whispered mercilessly, “Sherlock get’s all the fun toys.” She added, sounding eerily like a spoilt little girl who had been told she wasn’t allowed to touch other children’s things.

 

It was completely unnerving and John fought the urge to shudder, knowing it was exactly what she wanted.

"Would you like that Doctor?" her mouth so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his earlobe. 

 _Don’t hit a woman. Don’t hit a woman._ _Don’t hit a –_

A knock from the door echoed around the room as the door creaked open. John noticed how Ms Adler quickly stepped away from John, as if she had never been standing there, he smirked in victory. Though a tactical retreat, it was still a retreat nonetheless.

“John?” Mary stepped into the room, instantly calming John as he saw her standing in the doorway.

“John?” Sherlock trailed into the room after her and suddenly the calmness disappeared as he remembered.

“Shut the door and sit the _fuck_ down.” He glared at his supposed best friend, fighting the urge to sucker punch him again – and bloody well hit his nose and fucking teeth. 

“I was going to tell you,” Sherlock began, his words apologetic though John could hear the insincerity there.

“ _Were you_?” John raised his eyebrows, a sceptical look on his face.

“No, not really.” Sherlock caved instantly, waving it off breezily, “you were best not knowing and frankly I would’ve never had told you, it this hadn’t of happened.” He added honestly before sending Irene a sarcastic smile of _‘thank you so much for this’_.

“Because you don’t trust me.”

“What – _no_ – John, don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock tutted off-handily, “I just gave an entire speech countering that statement.”

“Words are different to actions, Sherlock,” John rebutted easily with rapid fire, “you can say you trust me all you want but all I see is that whenever something big goes down, I am the last person you turn to.”

“John –” Sherlock began, but cut himself off, as he couldn’t find the words he needed to make it right between them.

A heavy silence filled the room as they stood awkwardly, neither parties wanting to break in, in case the wrong this was said.

“Come along, Mrs Watson, let’s let our boys talk it out.” Irene announced in the midst of the silence, taking Mary’s arm in her own as if they were women from a Jane Austen novel about to take a turn around the gardens.

“Mary –” John looked over at his wife carefully, searchingly. Not that he didn’t think Mary could handle Irene Adler because he knew she could, it was just he didn’t want to keep having their night dumped on by ancient history. She shouldn’t have to deal with all of this, especially not on their wedding night.

“I’m fine John, just sort this out okay? I’ll just be in the next room.” She gave him a reassuring smile.

“Mr Holmes.” Irene stepped forward, looking up at the detective, placing a soft hand on the side of his face, her thumb resting ever so gently on the arch of his cheekbone. “ _Always_ a pleasure.”

“Ms Adler.” He gave her a small smirk that could’ve easily been missed by most people. However the other occupants in the room were not most people.

Mary met John’s gaze with wide eyes and nodded her head at the two flirting maniacs in the doorway, with a look that said ‘ _what is that all about?_ ’

John shook his head and rolled his eyes ever so slightly, silently conveying _‘I’ll tell you later’._

The rage that had been growing since Irene had interrupted him down in the reception hall had come to a boiling point when Sherlock had entered. Waltzing in like the bloody parading peacock that he was, certainly was not helping the situation.

As Mary and Irene left the room, the door was closed with a soft thud, leaving the thick silence to coat the room once more.

A soft ticking of a clock could be faintly heard from somewhere in the room. The lanky detective quietly sat down in the armchair, remembering the request John has asked him when he and Mary had arrived. For a moment he complied, he sat and did not say a word. However it did not take long for Sherlock to grow frustrated at the echoing silence and attempt to break it.

“John, let me –” he began, but John cut him off just as quickly.

“You _fucking_ love this don’t you?”

“John, I assure you –”

“You love watching all the little people scramble below you while you lord above us playing God.”

Unable to think of anything to say that would work in his favour, Sherlock chose to remain silent and watch John pace back and forth across the room.

“Is there anyone else who’s not dead that I should be aware of?” John began to ramble angrily as Sherlock sat frozen in his seat, waiting for the rant to wind down. “Moriarty? Is he really dead? Is he part of your _fun_ little fake your death club? Do you sit around and laugh at all the stupid people who actually believe your tricks?”

“Moriarty is dead.” Sherlock felt he needed to explain; knowing that the doubt would possible manifested in John’s mind and torment him. “I saw him shoot himself in the head right before I jumped. Definitely dead.” He gave a quick awkward smile as if that was a point for his argument.

“God, I am such an idiot.” John exhaled loudly as he wiped a hand over his face, sitting back into the chair behind him, elbows resting on his knees.

There were a few moments of silence, of ticking clocks and frustrated sighs, before Sherlock saw his opportunity for explaination.

“She was in danger, John. I knew where she would be and when. By not acting, it was the same as pulling the trigger myself.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John sighed, “You’re meant to be my best friend, but you _never_ tell me anything.”

“There was no time, I –”

“ _After_ , Sherlock, you could have told me after. Better yet, you could have said something when I made a complete tit of myself telling you that garbage Mycroft told me to spare your feelings.”

“I was better if you didn’t know.”  

“Did you let half of London in on this secret too? You, Molly and _25_ _tramps_ have a cover up business I should be aware of?” he said, hating how jealous he sounded about Sherlock and Molly’s friendship. She was a nice girl, who unfortunately did not have the greatest luck when it came to men – most recently her fiancé, who she, somehow, still couldn’t see the similarities between him and a certain poncy detective.

“No, no one knew,” he reassured John, though he couldn’t help adding, “but she did give me the idea to fake my death.”

“Not helping.”

“Right.” Sherlock gave a small nod, before falling back into the hated silence.

“No one knew,” he began slowly, cautiously as if feeling the waters before entering, “not even Mycroft. She couldn’t afford him finding out so I couldn’t tell you.”

“When have I _ever_ gone to Mycroft with your secrets – Jesus, it’s like I’m in primary school…” John shook his head, baffled at the realisation.

“Technically, you did lie to me, saying that Irene was alive and in witness protection.” Sherlock muttered rather childishly.

John did not respond to that but instead sent the detective a look of _‘are you fucking kidding me?’_ , which shut the detective up rather quickly on that line of arguing.

“You were safer not knowing.” Sherlock continued, quietly, after a few moments pause.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” John grounded out with a roll of his eyes, “I’ll fairly sure I’ve got a nice bullet wound scar to prove that I can get into just as much trouble without y –”

“And once you knew I was alive, how long, _exactly_ , did it take for you to be placed in that bonfire!” Sherlock suddenly broke the quiet, calmness of his voice.

“Shut up,” John shook his head lowly, though the heat and anger had all but left his voice. It struck a chord in him that Sherlock was apparently still feeling guilty about the bonfire.

“Oh no, _please_ , I’ll accept rough estimations, ball park figures.” Sherlock rambled sarcastically, waving his hands about dramatically.

“Until I give you reason not to trust me – until I go to Mycroft and blab about where you go and what you do or readily go behind your back with something that affects your life and your wellbeing, you have no right to toss me aside when things get bad. I will not be left to sit on the sidelines while you lie to my face about what you’re doing. I _refuse_ to watch idly as some fucking _pawn_ in your bloody live action chess matches, to be tossed aside when I’m not useful anymore, you understand? I get that you are far more brilliant and intelligent that I could ever possibly be, but that does not give you the right to manipulate my feelings and my life to suit your mood. I will _not_ do that again.”

John took a breath and closed his eyes to physically calm himself down and quell his rising anger.

“You are my best friend, the best friend I’ve ever had, but that can’t last if you don’t even trust me to keep your secrets. How can I trust you, if you don’t trust me?”

Sherlock looked up at John, slightly taken back by the statement, he opened his mouth to say something in rebuttal, but found the words weren’t there, so he closed it shut and frowned.

 

\---

 

“Oh, seems like the boys are wrapping it up,” Adler smiled a like a predatory crocodile in murky waters. The angry yells and curses had died down, leaving quiet mumblings from the next room. “Longer than I would’ve thought but your husband was looking rather jilted by my sudden appearance.”

Mary sat a the edge of the bed, Sherlock’s coat bundled in her arms, the room was quite warm and she was no longer in need of it. Slowly, she sat up walked over the large armchair, placing the coat over the back so that she could give it back to him once he and John had finished talking.

“You didn’t have to do this today,” Mary sighed, rubbing a palm across her wearying face, cursing at the fact that she probably smudged her mascara. She had not spent a large amount of time with Irene Adler, but she already could tell why Sherlock seemed so fascinated with her and why John looked like he was moments away from strangling her. “You didn’t have to ruin John’s day like this, it was cruel. To John and Sherlock.” 

“That was the plan.” She winked playfully, walking over to lean on the back of the armchair, fingers running over the seams and threads of Sherlock’s coat.

“Well it was a bloody awful plan.” Mary crossed her arms, furious that this one woman had spoilt the wonderful evening they were all having. Sherlock had been so kind and supportive for both of them, not just all day but during the entire wedding process. The speech, the planning, composing their wedding song, not to mention the wonderful news that he had just given them not half an hour ago. Mary would be having a little talk with the detective for attempting to sneak out early without so much as a goodbye to the bride and groom, but still, this woman didn’t need to turn up and cause such a rift between the two friends when things were finally getting back to how she imagined they were before the whole business with Moriarty.

“Oh please, you don’t really have much of the moral high ground here, _Mrs_ _Watson_.” Irene chuckled darkly, watching Mary with an unblinking stare.

“I’m sorry?” Mary looked over at the slender woman, eyebrow raised as her angry began to build. What the hell was she implying?

“You’re in too deep now, Mrs Watson.” Irene cooed. “All you can do is sit back and watch the chaos destroy the life you’ve fought so hard to build.”

“What are you –?“ Her voice began to falter, fear dousing the anger in her heart. Oh God, how did she –?

“Personalised wedding telegrams, I do love the lengths he goes to give that little extra _something_.”

Mary remained silent, mouth tight as she stared at the woman, eyes slightly wide, searching, before looking away almost as quickly. Nervously, Mary began to fiddle with the hem of her shawl; the beading was tightly sewn in but had begun to come loose with her incessant picking. She could still feel Irene’s intense gaze upon her; as if the other woman could gain the answers she sought by simply staring at Mary long enough.

“It’s obvious Sherlock doesn’t know, he’d have the both of you heavy protected my Mycroft’s finest, which makes it all the more interesting. It takes a special type of woman to fool Sherlock Holmes.” The grin on Irene’s face was almost proud as she smiled across the room at Mary.

“Does John know?”

“No.” Mary responded carefully, quietly.

“Oh, now that is _delightful_.” Bright blue eyes flashed wild with excitement, “Unfortunately, I can’t stay long. Leaving the country in the morning,” she shrugged nonchalantly as if she had said that she was going to Tesco’s in the morning or walking the dog. “A girl’s got to eat.” Picking up her jacket, Irene flung into around her arms, draping it like a luxurious cape, before making her way to the door.

Pausing for a moment in thought she added, “Tell Sherlock, I’m not busy, if he’s ever in need of a dance partner.”

And with that the Woman left, seeping into the darkening shadows of the corridor, leaving without so much as a trace of her ever being there. No one saw her slip into the gardens and into a sleek black vehicle. Irene Adler was once again dead to the world.

It wasn’t until too late that Mary Watson realised, Irene had never had a coat and Sherlock’s was not hanging over the chair.

“Oh damn it.”

 

\--

 

In all honest the silence had been rather therapeutic. It was actually rather nice to sit in a room with Sherlock Holmes and not have him trying to fill every single moment with fast-paced dialogue for which the rest of the world was forced to latch on to every second word in hopes of following his train of thought.

John had calmed down quite a bit, in actuality, though perhaps he had rather forgotten to let Sherlock know this fact. As the detective was sitting – or rather vibrating – in his seat, desperately trying to figure out how to make things right with his friend.

Rubbing a hand through his short bristly hair, John shook his head and gave a small smile. Bloody maniac.

Probably should put him out of his misery, John thought to himself, chuckling inwardly. For as socially awkward as John thought himself to be, he knew for a fact Sherlock was far more out of his depth in social interactions than the good doctor was.

“I met Lestrade whilst lying in the gutter on a rather lovely cocaine binge,” Sherlock blurted out suddenly. John paused, slightly confused but didn’t stop the other man from continuing. “He told me ‘ _those things will kill you’_ , then I proceeded to solve his case from a glace at the folder in his hand.”

“Sherlock –”

“My first kiss was in the second grade, Beatrice something – I’ve deleted her second name – said she liked my eyes and wanted to get married, I detested the idea of marriage and of the kiss itself, though I allowed it long enough to distract her so I could cut her pony tail off, I wanted to test the rate at which differencing hair follicles _burnt_.”

“What –?” 

“Coincidentally, I was then asked to leave school and was home-schooled, mostly by Mycroft –”

“God, why doesn’t that surprise me,” John muttered, shuddering to think what lessons Mycroft would teach a school-aged Sherlock.

“My mother taught me how to dance, I love it, though Mycroft always teased me for it.” 

“Sherlock, stop, _stop!_ ” John put a hand up, halting the detective’s increasing rapid-fire of personal confidences as if it were a lightening round on a quiz show.

“What? _What?_ ” Sherlock frowned, confused. “I thought you wanted to know all my secrets. That’s what best friends do, so I’m telling you mine.”

“God, Sherlock, I didn’t mean like that.” John began to chuckle breathily, shaking his head.

“You are nauseatingly inconsistent,” Sherlock sniffed.

“And you’re a childish git,” John shot back, teasingly, before mellowing his tone and his posture, “I’m not saying everything, cause lord knows that would be down right terrifying and I’ve only just gotten out of therapy, again.”

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock winced.

“Just let me in once in a while, okay? I can’t help if I’m in the dark.”

“Your family would be safer in the dark.” Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet John’s. It was all too telling. Safety in Sherlock’s mind lay in ignorance. Knowledge was power and power was exciting and dangerous.

“I’d rather protect my family with the facts, than sit around unprepared for what’s to come.”

"And when you decide that you can't be apart of that anymore?" Sherlock asked him as if he was simply just waiting around for the inevitable day when John decided he didn't want their friendship anymore. 

It was here that John finally saw Sherlock's fears laid before him. While John saw Sherlock's mistrust in him as a sign of their fading friendship, the detective believed that John would one day simply wake up and decide he didn't need Sherlock anymore, the he could just be tossed aside like some child's unloved plaything, no longer interesting or precious. 

“Don’t let people get in your head,” John told him quietly, earnestly, “nothing’s going to change.”

“It already has,” Sherlock muttered ominously, “but it is a change I can live with.” He added, oddly affectionate for the detective, but the day had brought out a side to him that John had never seen before.

“I guess that means you’re alright with this, _Uncle Sherlock_?” John almost sang the name teasingly.

“Ugh God _why_?” Sherlock visibly cringed at the title, the same way he did whenever Mycroft mentions _knighthoods_. “That would be the single most irresponsible act you would ever commit.”

“Well _that_ it certainly debatable,” John shrugged mysteriously, “but it doesn’t get you out of nappy duty.”

“You are _cruel_ John Watson.”

“Oh yes,” he agreed, smiling brightly. “Remember that, will you?”

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Sherlock said as if he’d just realised something.

John cocked his head to the side for a moment; gathering information of what Sherlock had done recently for him. 

“What? Oh yeah, sorry, thank you for all your help with the wedding, it really meant a lot to –”

“No, I meant Mary, you’re welcome.” He grinned again – that all knowing grin that always screamed _punch me in the face_ to John. Oh Sherlock had many faces and grins that he likes to pull on the unsuspecting public, but the one that John hated more than the _we both know what’s really going on here_ face was the _I’ve done something amazingly clever and you haven’t even noticed it yet_ grin.

 Seeing John’s confusion, Sherlock continued, “If I hadn’t faked my death, you would’ve have met Mary, ergo – _you’re welcome_.”

John stood there stunned for a moment, mouth open, eyes narrowed. Was he really asking John to _thank_ him for tricking him into thinking he was dead? Seriously?!

The stunned reaction was obviously not the one Sherlock as grin was wiped off his face and he began to shift uncomfortably, as if preparing to duck if John decided to swing.

“Mhhmm, not good?”

“God you’re a dick,” John breathed out but chuckled all the same. Some part of John could tell that under all the self-absorbed comments and arrogant narcissism, Sherlock was letting John know – in his own twistedly complex, deranged sociopathic way – that he was alright with the changes that were to come and had accepted Mary, knowing that it was a good thing. Though Sherlock may need to be reminded of his place with them when the baby came – God, _baby_ – John smiled brightened at the very thought, first child syndrome would kick in and all that, the bloody git was bound to have jealousy issues. But John knew Sherlock would be a fantastic uncle – under supervision of course, he hadn’t missed the fact that Sherlock had promised their little ring bearer, Archie, pictures of beheadings.    

Catching a glimpse of the other man’s face he could see that the all-knowing _punch me_ face of unholy arrogance was once again firmly plastered, as Sherlock began to join him.

As their laughter began to die down, John pushed against his knees to stand up and make his leave. Picking up the pile of telegrams, he made his way over to the door. However there was just one last thing that was bothering him in the back of his mind.

“Sherlock?”

“Mhmm?” he looked up, innocently, from where he sat.

“Why did it take so long for Mary to find you?” John paused at the door, hand lent against the frame. He knew it probably didn’t matter, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “I couldn’t see you in the reception hall when I looked either.”

“Oh, I was on my way home, about to catch a cab back to London.” He brushed off easily as if he had simply said he’d been in the gents.

“Oh right,” John nodded dumbly, that was not the answer he was expecting at all. The outright bluntness of the statement made it hurt that much more. Sherlock was just going to walk off into the night and fade into the shadows, he wasn’t even going to say goodbye.

“Yes, well that was until your pregnant wife decided to run around in the frigid night air to drag me back to deal with _this_ mess.” He sniffed, playing the arrogant sod once again.

“So, are you staying now?” John tried, silently hopeful that their conversation may’ve changed his mind.

“No,” Sherlock said simply, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, okay,” John attempted to hide his disappointment and gave a small smile and nod, though his smile did not quite meet his eyes and Sherlock noticed instantly.

“Need to get back to Baker Street for when Ms Adler decides she’s done with my _coat_.” He continued with a smirk, which grew as John’s smile brightened.

“She wouldn’t…” John chuckled.

“The fascination that woman has with my possessions is frankly alarming,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless.

“Flirts by nicking your stuff,” John shook his head in disbelief, “ _God_ , I am in primary school.” He continued to laugh as he shut the door behind him.

 

\---

 

Mary sat on the edge of the bed for sometime, mulling over the raging thoughts pulsing through her tired mind. The words Irene Adler had spoken echoed in her head, haunting her.

A click at the door snapped her from her dizzying thoughts as she looked up to see her wonderful husband saunter in. He paused as he closed the door, looking around for traces of their unwelcomed gate crasher.

“Oh, she left,” Mary waved off with a tired sigh, the events of the day beginning to take their toll.

“Thank God,” John breathed with an easy smile, “If I ever see that woman again, it will be far too soon.” He sighed, placing the telegraphs down on the coffee table.

“Mhmm, your blog posts don’t really do her justice,” Mary agreed with a raised eyebrow.

“She’d come after me if they did – oh bloody hell,” he swore, picking up the card on the top of the pile. A large red lipstick kiss was imprinted over one of the messages, _‘Let’s have dinner xxx’_ was written next to it in what looked like a black eyeliner pencil, judging from the smudging. How did she ever have time to _do_ that? John frowned, “does she have to leave bloody _love notes_ on our wedding telegrams?”

“Leave it and come to bed,” Mary sighed, patting the empty spot next to her on the bed.

John tossed the card down, walking over to collapse on the end of the bed next to her. He groaned, falling back into the soft pillowy quilt, eyes closed.

“I ducked down to the party, apologised and said you were a bit tired, so there is nothing left to do but relax, flight’s not ‘til tomorrow arvo, so I vote we sleep until then.”

“For our Sex Holiday, you mean?” Mary playfully goaded.

“Oh God, I told him to stop calling it that,” He whined, “bloody git.”

“You ‘reacon he’ll be okay while we’re away?” Mary looked at him.

“You know he’s not actually our child, apparently he’s a legal adult and everything?” John mocked her sarcastically.

“And just when I had the adoption papers drawn up,” Mary sighed dramatically, one hand over her stomach, “sorry baby, I guess your big brother isn’t legality your brother.”

It was in that moment that they both realised in the chaos of Irene Adler they had not had a moment to themselves to process the news Sherlock had told them earlier.

“Oh, I’m freaking out,” she breathed shakily.

“We’ll get a pregnancy test in the morning,” he assured her.

“Sherlock Holmes himself told me, I’m pretty sure it’s a safe bet,” she laughed, a tear rolling down her cheek as the excitement bubbled inside.

“God, I love you.” John whispered softly, touching her forehead against his, closing his eyes and enjoying the pure bliss that was this perfect moment.

“So I’m guessing you two made up then?” she asked innocently, opening her eyes, knowing John couldn’t stay mad at Sherlock for very long.

“Knocked a couple of teeth out, but he should be fine in a couple of days,” John joked, a smile on his lips as he peeked one eye open to see her reaction.

“Oh good,” Mary smiled, chuckling as she leaned back into the bed to cuddle up with her newly wedded husband, savouring each moment as he pulled her closer.

“Yeah, well at least he’s got a good doctor.” John muttered into his wife’s shoulder, enjoying the peace for the first time that day.

“The _best_.” Mary leaned her head so their noses touched, leaning further in to give him a soft kiss.

“What did Irene Adler want anyway?” John paused, pulling back with a frown.

“What?” Mary frowned, slightly confused, heart jumping internally though she schooled her expression masterfully.

“When you both left, it wasn’t just about giving me and Sherlock space, she wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, nothing really, girl stuff.” Mary brushed off quickly, making an odd face and then continuing, “wanted to know how what you liked in bed.”

“Oh God _really_?” John groaned, scrunching his nose up in disgust, causing Mary to giggled as she leaned into him.

“So I told her you were into to really crazy kinky stuff, with guns and blowtorches, zero gravity chambers and hockey masks.”

“ _What_?”

“Honestly, she didn’t seem that shocked by it all, I think on some level she expected it.” Mary teased cheekily.

“You are an insanely cruel woman, Mrs Watson.” John smiled, pecking her on the lips as he pulled her towards his chest.

“Better get used to it, husband.” Her chuckle was muted against the soft fabric of his suit as he hugged her tight.

Oh yes, he was thoroughly looking forward to getting used to this.

 

\---

 

221b was deathly still when Sherlock finally entered, dark and stagnant with no signs of life, except for the ones flittering though the window from the world outside. However, he knew better.

Pulling his tie loose, he moved towards his seat by the hearth, careful to not cause much noise, ears pricked for anything that was not made by him or the hustle outside. Flicking on a small lamp flood light into the area around his chair and John's, making the contrast between the dim light and the encroaching shadows all the more apparent. 

“You’re keeping your Doctor on a long leash these days.” The familial feminine voice wafted through the dancing murkiness of the inky black room.

“It’s been a while, a lot can change in two years.” He told the darkness, knowing it wouldn’t be long until John’s seat opposite him was occupied by the intruder. She loved the pretence of the game as much as he did.

“Oh I have noticed,” she purred in the shadows, “maybe I’ve got a type but your Doctor is far more appealing now that he’s off the market, wouldn’t you agree?”

Instead of rising to the obvious jibe, Sherlock smiled. “What have you got?”

“I was in the area, heard there was a Watson wedding, can’t blame a girl for thinking it was a Holmes wedding too – wanted to show you what you were missing.”

“What have you got?” Sherlock repeated his question, unswayed by her prattling distractions.

“What makes you think I’ve got anything at all, maybe I just enjoy the chaos my very presence can cause?”

A smile stretched wicked across his lips as he looked into the dark room. “You wouldn’t risk coming to me unless you felt you needed to,” he began, taking a breath as he prepared himself for the deconstruction of his deductions, “you’ve either got yourself into something far over your head – not unlikely,” he sent her a look as he could almost feel her stare sharpen in the shadows, disapproving of his probing, “you wouldn’t have made your entrance so dramatic, no, if you were truly in danger you would have sort me out quietly. You wanted to make a scene – you wanted John to get angry, you wanted the theatrics, why? You could be bored, again unlikely; you have far too much at stake and too high a self-preservation to be so liberal with your identity. No, you _have_ something, something you wanted to lord over me before you handed it over,” his eyes tightened. “You knew there was no one at that wedding who could identify you – no one accept John and myself. But that’s _still_ far too risky for a simple catch up – you have something and you feel _obligated_ to give it to me.” He paused for a moment, allowing the deductions to float in the air and completely skin in to their directed target. Lifting his hands in a prayer positioning to rest lightly under his nose, he leaned forward slightly, eyes intensely focused on her silhouette in the darkness, eagerly awaiting her next move, he continued. “ _What have you got_?”

“Your _coat_.” She whispered back seductively – amusement clear in her voice. She was enjoying the power in her corner as she walked out from the shadows, placing the long belstaff jacket on the back of John’s chair. 

“ _No_ , you came for a reason, you felt guilty, obliged to tell me something that couldn’t be said in a text or over the phone – _what_?”

“Who says I haven’t given it to you already?” She countered quickly, a well-matched opponent in this verbal tennis match.

Sitting down in John’s chair, she held his gaze unblinking. Sherlock berated himself for the lack of focus the wedding had caused. _Sentiment_. He realised, how ironic. For here, in their second confrontation, it would be Sherlock who would lose this game due to his sympathetic weaknesses displayed plainly for all to see. _A chemical defect found on the losing side._ He’d missed something. Something so clear, something so obvious. Something dangerous. Something _interesting._ Why hadn’t he seen it?!

“Be careful,” she murmured looking up at him – she was suddenly by his feet, how had she moved so quickly and silently, without him noticing?  A hand wrapped in his as she had done all those years ago, clearly there was a weakness of sentimentality on both sides. All pretence, all power games and masks were gone, she looked utterly sincere and God forbid, _vulnerable_. “You saved my life once, a debt that I don’t think I can ever or will ever repay you for, but I can give you this warning.  Watch your back. You’re playing in the big leagues now, Sherlock, and most of the time, they don’t play fair.”

Though internally his mind was flying, racing, with a thousand different questions, he kept his features neutral – no use folding when he could still bluff the situation in his favour.

“When have I ever played _fair_?” he whispered back, quietly ferocious, an eye of a hurricane.

However, Irene did not continue, but rather she stood up, armour and masks back in place as she brushed the creases from her dress. 

She was leaving, obvious, dull. Her cards had been played; any more hints and it would practically be _cheating_.

Perhaps they were like little school children, as John had suggested, all too stubborn to give up their games and playthings, all too arrogant to admit fault, too much pride to ask for help.

As warm lips ghosted his cheek, the child within him fought to urge to cut off her ponytail, though he remained stoically poised, so perhaps he’d matured a little since his primary school days.

 

“Goodnight, Mr Holmes.”

 

She left without another word, silently a cat in the shadows, only the faintest of thuds came as she closed the door downstairs could mark the finality of her exit. Sherlock was left alone in the dark room, starring intensely at the chair opposite him – John’s chair – teeth gritted, eyes sharp as he tried to mentally walk through every moment of the day just passed. Where was it? What was hidden under the joyful smiles and formal attire? What had slipped passed him while he was occupied with a flirty maid-of-honour and fancy napkin folding?

 

What had he missed? 

The End 


End file.
